2:45 pm: I just left for a big Martin Scorsese tribute dinner in Santa Barbara. Roger Durling and the Santa Barbara Film Festival organization are presenting the Irishman director with the 2019 Kirk Douglas Award for Excellence in Film. I’m actually hitching a ride from Sasha Stone, and then coming back with Tatyana, who can’t leave until later.

Four years ago the original Rubber Soul album cover photo was unearthed and circulated. By this I mean the naturally-proportioned image that wasn’t used in favor of the famously distorted image that become instantly iconic.

The photo session happened sometime in November ’65, and reportedly on or near the grounds of John Lennon‘s home on the St. George’s Hill estate, Weybridge, Surrey. (It’s currently called Kenwood).)

The folk-rockish, Dylan-influenced suede buckskin jackets obviously indicated the shot was taken in cool, autumnal weather. But until this morning I didn’t realize that the weather was more on the frigid side, as in one of the fabbies muttering “Jesus, take the shot already, it’s fucking cold out here.”

How do I know this? Paul McCartney has pulled his sleeves over his hands and fingers. Nobody does this unless it’s biting cold. (Or unless they’re light on Jack Löndon-like manliness.) I occasionally did this myself while walking around my New Jersey and Connecticut home towns so don’t tell me.

I didn’t pay attention in 2015 when this photo was first circulated, so this is new. Five decades plus and I never saw the freezing McCartney hands until today.

A middle-aged ex-basketball star with a drinking problem (Ben Affleck) lands a gig coaching a basketball team at his old high school in Torrance. We’ve all seen this film, of course. Hoosiers mixed with alcohol meets Kevin Costner‘s McFarland, USA. We also know there are only so many ways to tell this kind of story, and all of them with the same ending.

The compelling X-factor is the fact that Affleck’s own struggles with alcohol add a palpable subcurrent. Plus director Gavin O’Connor (The Accountant, Miracle) knows his way around athletic dramas.

The current title is The Way Back (Warner Bros., 3.20). A year and a half ago it was called The Has-Been.

Deadline Boilerplate, posted on 6.11.18: “The Accountant team of Ben Affleck and director Gavin O’Connor are circling The Has-Been, a drama scripted by Brad Ingelsby. I’m told Warner Bros is trying to make a deal on a movie that would happen on a fast track. No deals have been completed at this point.

Brad Ingelsby‘s script “centers on a former basketball all-star who has lost his wife and family foundation in a struggle with addiction. He attempts to regain his soul and salvation by becoming the coach of a disparate, ethnically mixed high school basketball team at his alma mater. The Has-Been will be produced by Affleck and Jennifer Todd, Mark Ciardi and Gordon Grey, with O’Connor also expected to be involved as a producer along with the writer.”

I’d like to read Inglesby’s script, if anyone has a PDF. Reach out on Facebook and I’ll send you an email.

As horrific as this morning’s Saugus High School shooting was (two fatalities, three critically wounded, shooter apprehended), none of us are shocked or surprised when this kind of thing occurs. The truth (and God help us) is that school shootings are an almost routine occurence. We know this won’t be the last, and that random slaughter is more or less a facet of American life now.

Which is why the bigger gut-punch, for me, is the two-day-old news about the drowning of Venice, Italy — the worst flood there since 1966, and a harbinger of future floods to come. The eternal beauty and serenity of Venice is no longer a given, and the vibes are anything but serene with this the Sword of Damocles hovering. It’s shattering, heartbreaking.

Wash, rinse, repeat: Many world-class cities (Manhattan included) are going to be flooded in the coming decades, and it’s basically the fault of those on Donald Trump‘s side of the aisle — thoughtless industrialists, the denial brigade, China, India, cattle industry, etc. And 38% of the American electorate is down with the Trump agenda. Because they’re devoted to aggressive ignorance, and because the maintaining of Anglo Saxon dominance and pushing back against POC encroachment is paramount to them.

Thanks to Sony Pictures and the tireless p.r. team behind A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood for the nice Mr. Rogers sweater. I’ll never wear it outside my home, but it’s very warm. (I regard thick red sweaters as an east-coast Republican thing — I’m more of a black Italian sweater type of guy.) But it’s very generous of Sony to send this over along with some other Rogers items. Thanks, guys.

Over the last year I’ve been campaigning against the wearing of black sneakers with white midsoles, aka “whitesides.” Last November I announced that these grotesquely designed creations had become “the new Crocs,” and as bad as the wearing of gold-toed socks. I naturally presumed that X-factor industry types would agree with me.

But over the last couple of days I’ve noticed that Matt Damon, Christian Bale and Adam Sandler are all wearing these godforsaken things. Even Brad Pitt is wearing a variation — i.e., cream-colored sneakers with whitesides. For whatever reason these guys are refusing to acknowledge that wearing whitesides makes you look like a huge dork.

I suppose this means that I’m the clueless one, right? The guy who doesn’t get it? I think not. I’ve been to Italy a few times and I know what goes, and these shoes are an embarassment to mankind.

The last effort from Joel and Ethan Coen was The Ballad of Buster Scruggs, an anthology film for Netflix. But that didn’t count because it wasn’t really a single-narrative “Coen Bros. film” that opened in theatres. Within that realm, Joel and Ethan have been M.I.A. since Hail, Caesar!, which came out three years ago. Except that was a bit of a disappointment. It was fine (Josh Brolin was excellent) but at the same time a bit strained and somehow incomplete.

If you ask me the last real Coen brothers film was Inside Llewyn Davis, which was six fucking years ago.

I “liked” but didn’t love True Grit (’10) all that much. It was basically about Jeff Burly Bridges going “shnawwhhhhr-rawwwhhrr-rawwrrluurrllllh.” It certainly wasn’t an elegant, blue-ribbon, balls-to-the-wall, ars gratia artis Coen pic — it was a well-written, slow-moving western with serious authenticity, noteworthy camerawork, tip-top production design and, okay, a few noteworthy scenes.

So let’s just call the last ten years a difficult, in-and-out, up-and-down saga, but at the same time acknowledge that the Coens have enjoyed two golden periods of shining creativity and productivity.

The first golden period was a four-film run — Blood Simple (’84), Raising Arizona (’87), Miller’s Crossing (’90) and Barton Fink (’91). The Hudsucker Proxy (’94) was a weird, half-successful, half-sputtering in-betweener. The second golden period (’96 to ’09) was an nine-film run that included Fargo (’96), The Big Lebowski (’98), O Brother, Where Art Thou? (’00), The Man Who Wasn’t There (’01), Intolerable Cruelty (’03), The Ladykillers (’04), No Country for Old Men (’07), Burn After Reading (’08) and A Serious Man (’09).

My moviegoing life has been diminished by the absence of the “real” Coen Brothers. If I was a mega-millionaire I would invest in whatever they want to make.

During a chat with JLo for Variety’s Actors on Actors series, Robert Pattinson (aka “Rbatz”) said that the Twilight series (a) has always struck him as a profoundly “weird story” and (b) that “it’s strange how people responded a lot to it.” Jesus…after all these years and he still doesn’t understand the primal appeal of this franchise?

“I guess the books are very romantic, but at the same time, it’s not like The Notebook romantic,” Rbatz said. “The Notebook is very sweet and heartbreaking, but ‘Twilight’ is about this guy, and he finds the one girl he wants to be with, and he also wants to eat her. I mean, not eat her, but drink her blood or whatever.”

No, no, no…it’s not about Edward Cullen wanting to drink Bella Swan‘s blood and turning her into a fellow vampire (although the story does eventually go there). It’s about the undying love and steadfast loyalty of a hunky young guy whose feelings aren’t driven by sexual hunger but an everlasting, otherworldly urge to shelter and protect.

The Twilight series goes off the rails in Breaking Dawn, Part 1 when Edward and Bella have sex and she gets pregnant. Being dead, Edward can’t achieve a stiffie, much less produce sperm, so the whole sexual angle is fucking ridiculous.

Originally posted on 5.27.14: I’ve never been a fan of that “plink plink plink plink plink pink plink plink” Twilight Zone theme, which replaced Bernard Herrmann‘s music after the first ’59-to-’60 season.

Herrmann’s original score is wonderfully solemn and vaguely creepy, and much more affecting in a moody-undercurrent way than anything that followed. The fact that Marius Constant‘s plunk-plink-bongos score is one of the most universally-recognizable music cues of the past century doesn’t mean jack-squat. There’s nothing lower than being a widely recognized music cue. Herrmann’s score is for the connoisseurs club — no chumps allowed.

Whatever the time frame, sexual assault is without question hateful, criminal and tragic. Who isn’t repelled by the import of various allegations that Roman Polanski behaved abominably with certain younger women? True, Polanski has denied the recent rape allegation shared by Valentine Monnier, and he is apparently considering suing Le Parisien for publishing her allegation. But there have been other similar assertions, as we all know.

There’s no way to argue that the women who protested against last night’s Paris opening of Polanski’s An Officer and a Spy (aka J’accuse) are emotionally in the wrong. But at the same time it is wrong to try and censor or suppress art.

We’re talking about two separate realms here — that of Polanski the artist vs. the flawed and conflicted Polanski who’s allegedly brought trauma and harm to certain women. History tells us that many noteworthy artists have been, more often than not, intemperate and unruly in their emotional relationships.. Hurt people hurt people, and I wish it were otherwise. But great or formidable cinema should never be fucked with…ever.